


rolling with the punches

by sadie18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Background Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter - Freeform, Detention, Fighting, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Hogwarts Era, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Running Away, like hes so stupid, oliver is so dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-20 03:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19368655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadie18/pseuds/sadie18
Summary: no matter what- the era, the age, the universe, muggle or wizard-oliver wood was always there-alternatively, marcus has a long dream, he wakes up in a different reality every day, and he just can't get away from oliver woodnote: the plot isn't apparent from the very beginning, so stick with it please! it clicks into place





	rolling with the punches

**Author's Note:**

> this is absolute nonsense. its one long page of pure fuckery. please enjoy.

Divination had always been dreadfully boring, Marcus supposed, but it was better than Arithmancy, Ancient Runes or  _Muggle Studies._

This had proven true when a few years ago, an extremely frustrated Higgs was tried to help an uncooperative Montague with his Arithmancy. This had resulted in a broken bedframe and Montague's head wonderfully bruised from when poor Terence threw a book at him.

So  _no._

Marcus would have to stick with stupid tea leaves, dream diaries, and fucking  _star-gazing_ or something. Whatever. It was his last year anyways, only a few months of suffering through Trelawney's barmy predictions of death and destruction with the Gryffindors.

A few rows up, Oliver Wood, sitting with someone Marcus couldn't put a name to, threw his head back till it lolled at an uncomfortable angle and was facing all the back rows. He mimed snoring and sleeping, making some Gryffindor girl giggle. Marcus scowled, and continued to do so when Oliver glanced at him, betraying no emotions.

She wasn't even  _pretty._

She didn't play quidditch.

She wasn't  _Marcus._

He found himself brooding about Oliver Wood, ugly and irritating Gryffindors, stupid classes, and redundant things like  _feelings_ until he was snapped out of his daze by Warrington shoving him in the shoulder. 

"Mr Flint!" Trelawney said dramatically. "Join me up front, please, to help with this demonstration. Chop chop, we haven't all day!" 

Marcus snarled as people stared at him, and felt heat rising to his cheeks. It was no secret that Marcus was repeating the year, and while he was much improved at magic, it made him extremely nervous using it in front of other people. 

"Let's find a second participant- hm, no- ah! Mr Wood! Since you were so close to dozing off, maybe some activity will prove more interesting."

Oliver, who looked like he was beginning to drool, startled, and grinned at Trelawney, who smiled softly. The charming smile most Gryffindors were known for. All the Weasleys had it, Harry Potter, the bashful Longbottom kid. Professors ate that shit up every time. 

Slytherins had more of a smirk, apparently, the famous one that was written about whenever a former Slytherin, a sly ministry official, would come in for an interview with the Prophet. Aggravating, seductive, _cocky_. 

It came naturally, if you wore the Slytherin crest. He exercised it when Oliver looked at him, his grin faltering slightly.

"The spell we'll demonstrate is very special." Trelawney's voice rang through the tower. "It's supposed to show the connection between two people in their future. There will be a magical line connecting the two. The brighter it is, the stronger their future bond is. Dimmer will prove that they will be practically strangers, not aware of each other. What are some important things to note about the magical line, or the bond?"

Ugly-Giggly-Gryffindor-Girl raised her hand, and Marcus rolled his eyes. 

"The strength of the bond is not partial to the  _type_ of bond the two will have." She said, sounding a bit snooty. That was just Marcus's  _opinion_. "It will be bright if they were to have a good friendship, bright if they were enemies, but  _very_ bright if there's a possible romantic connection."

"Very good, Miss Lynch. Ten points to Gryffindor." Trelawney said absently, looking at the two boys in an almost predatory way, making Marcus  _very_ uncomfortable. "But let's begin. I'm sure you two are curious to see your involvements in each other's future?"

"Professor, they're _always_ involved." Montague called unexpectedly, mortifying the two of them and sending the class into laughs. 

Marcus and Oliver's rivalry was famously unmatched, maybe only by Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy's. Almost all of the detentions each of them had been in had been because of each other, they'd slept over in the Hospital Wings after particularly rough quidditch matches, they'd done it  _all._ Pomfrey put their beds next to each other as punishment.

Oliver had pushed Marcus into the lake. Marcus had altered the word "wand" to "dong" on one of Oliver's essays. Oliver had vanished Marcus's clothes till he was in underwear in the Great Hall. Marcus had turned the entire Gryffindor quidditch team's robes green. 

"I'm not sure what you mean." Trelawney said distractedly. "Let's begin, then. It is a  _delicate_ and _long_ spell, class. Nobody is to speak, move, laugh, use their wands,  _anything._ The slightest misstep will have consequences- it will sent them into a state of lucid dreaming. Nothing major or painful, mind, but just  _don't_ distract me."

"Mr Wood, please put your right hand on the back of Mr Flint's neck." She instructed. In the corner of Marcus's eye, students were stifling giggles, and Oliver turned a ruddy shade of crimson before lightly placing his hand there. Marcus's heart pounded incessantly, so quickly he was sure that Oliver would be able to feel.

"Mr Flint, place your right hand on the back of Mr Wood's neck." 

They were uncomfortably close, and Marcus found that his robes were feeling a bit itchier and warm than they were before. 

Trelawney began to wave her wand, muttering what sounded like nonsense under her breath. The class held their breath, and Marcus wasn't able to move, his eyes glued firmly on Oliver's.

People always would say how brown eyes were boring. But Oliver's eyes weren't brown, really. More amber. The melted type that would trap butterflies and encase them, keeping them stuck there forever. 

The magical line between them was beginning to form- and to Marcus's horror, it didn't stop at dim, slowly getting brighter and brighter.

Marcus's train of thought was abruptly interrupted when someone coughed, loudly. Trelawney's wand jerked, and she gasped. 

Instantly, Marcus began to feel  _very_ tired, and he knew that the spell had been fucked. One look at Oliver's fluttering eyelids proved this theory true. 

He vaguely heard Trelawney yelling at the students, but the blood rushing in his ears was louder, and  _wow,_ his legs felt  _heavy,_ he was  _really, really_ tired. 

Marcus fought to keep his eyes open, and tried to move his hand away from Oliver's neck, but moving was so  _hard,_ and it was comfortable. He allowed his head to loll back onto Oliver's hand.

The last thing he saw was an excruciatingly bright, golden bond before Oliver collapsed on top of him, both of them tumbling to the ground, and Marcus succumbed himself to sleep. 

* * *

Marcus Flint found himself in muggle wear. 

Except it wasn't muggle wear. It was  _his_ clothing, this smart tuxedo and leather briefcase. And he was in an  _airport._  A muggle transportation system. 

He wasn't aware of how he knew all of this. Was he even himself? What airport was he in? Where was he going?

He felt his pants for a wand, the lapels, his briefcase, and found nothing. He caught his reflection in a window- he looked like himself. His hair was cleanly gelled, he was cleanly shaved, dressed to the nines, but still himself.

Marcus needed to gather himself, understand his surroundings, but instead his legs were taking him into a room, titled "VIP". He sat at the bar, elaborately decorated and lit in a sultry manner. Everything was tastefully embellished, and it was indeed a room for the wealthy and famous. A crooning, soulful voice floated through the air. It was luxurious, the room, and through the windows, he could see airplanes taking off, flying further and further away until squinting didn't work and it was gone. 

How did he get here? Marcus racked his brain,  _his brain,_ not the muggle one he was trapped in.

_Trelawney. Spell went wrong. Blacked out._

_Lucid dreaming._

_Oliver Wood._

Marcus breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that this was just a vision, a dream, and his real physical self was sleeping in an infirmary bed, Madam Pomfrey glaring at the two of them. This version of himself was a figment of his imagination. 

He needed to find Oliver. 

But how? Marcus didn't even know where  _Marcus_ was. 

"Excuse me," he said politely to another man who looked _just_ liked Charlie Weasley (who Marcus had had the most  _dreadful_ crush on till he left), dressed just as sharply as he was. "Where do I get a newspaper? First time at this airport." He improvised. 

"Oh, you can just have mine." He said kindly. "I have to be off anyways. Safe flight!" He pushed a rag into Marcus's hands before rushing off, and Marcus regathered himself at the bar. He was alone, the bartender seemingly to be somewhere else. Charlie Weasley, in his dreams?

Wouldn't be the first time, but Marcus shrugged it off.

_November 10th, 1964._

1964? That explained the fashion, Marcus supposed. The women were wearing beautifully done pencil skirts and fitted cardigans, their hair perfectly coiffed and lipstick not smudging even while sipping their drinks. The men wore suits, tailored to perfection, and walked around in shiny leather shoes, with gold buckles. Did muggles dress so properly for a flight? Or was it just the time period?

Marcus admired the chandelier. The jazz soothed him, and he tapped his foot to the beat. The room was sparsely full, with only a few people occupying the multiple velvet loveseats and armchairs. 

He found himself pulling a lighter and a cigar out of his lapel. He wasn't in full control of his actions. He was Marcus, yes, but the  _real_ Marcus was unconscious in a castle in Scotland. 

This was Marcus in another  _reality._ Another fucking  _universe._

It looks like he was reality jumping in his dream. Bully for him. 

Whatever. Marcus needed a drink, and the bartender had returned, polishing glasses with his back to him. 

"Bourbon on the rocks, please." He murmured, taking a deep drag of his cigar, relishing the bitter smoke floating into his lungs. The  _real_ Marcus would never even smoke  _gillyweed,_ let alone muggle cigars. 

"Right away, mister." The bartender finally turned around, Marcus almost choked. 

It was Oliver Wood in the flesh, wearing bartending gear, glass half full of bourbon. He froze.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said after a few seconds of silence, not able to help himself. "You seem familiar."

Familiar?  _Familiar?_ Marcus  _knew_ Oliver! 

But Marcus was just a viewer in this memory, like looking into a pensieve. The audience in his own play. So he sat back, and let the actions guide him instead. 

He wondered if Oliver was experiencing the same dream, if he would remember this when they woke up, or if they were having different thoughts.

"You do too." Oliver frowned. "I apologise; I do see a lot of people, with my profession."

"No need to apologise." Marcus said smoothly. "In fact, I should say sorry. I'm distracting you. Why don't I buy you a drink to make up for it?"

Marcus felt shocked at the words that left his mouth, horrified that this body was flirting with Oliver.

"You can't do that." Oliver smiled softly, blushing, "I'm working."

Marcus opened his arms and gestured grandly to the emptied room. "Oh yes, pardon me- I didn't notice the crowd. My flight's been delayed till tomorrow and I'm staying at the airport hotel tonight. I'm terribly bored... humour me?"

Oliver rolled his eyes, placing the bourbon in front of him. The colour matched his eyes. 

"On the house." Oliver smiled cheekily- that smile was painstakingly familiar to Marcus, the one that he had been commenting on not too long ago. He saw why professors loved him.

Oliver, in his white shirt and black bowtie, was _so handsome._ He had the look that made you want to introduce him to your parents. A smile that could melt even Snape's cold heart enough to get him a better grade. Eyes so warm that Marcus could just look and stare and-

And he  _was_ staring. How embarrassing. 

"Thank you, but I won't drink it until you pour one for yourself and drink with me." Marcus said, almost (very) petulantly, but his smirk made Oliver squirm a bit until he was absently pouring himself some whiskey, no ice. 

"Cheers." Marcus dipped his head, looking at Oliver from under his eyelashes, and clinked their glasses. 

Marcus knew that he was hitting on Oliver. Oliver knew Marcus was hitting on Oliver. He couldn't stop himself, didn't particularly want to, either. 

Marcus had been wanting to do this for years.

They chatted amicably for a bit. Oliver got a job at the airport after finishing college. Marcus was flying to France to do business. They found out little bits and pieces like this about each other, and the Marcus of this universe was slowly getting more and more interested in the man in front of him.

His family would hate it. Society would close a door in their face. But Marcus was powerful, and very,  _very_ spoiled. Whatever he wanted, he got. 

He  _really_ wanted Oliver. Oliver was beautiful. Rich people loved beautiful things. 

Time ticked by much too quickly for Marcus's liking, and by the time it was pitch black out, he was pleasantly buzzed. Oliver was slightly tipsy too, but he'd only had to serve one other customer, much earlier in the evening, just before he'd closed the bar. 

"It's getting late." Marcus murmured, raking his eyes over Oliver. "I should check in. Care to join?"

This was much more forward than Marcus would've liked, but it was out, and Oliver flustered, almost dropping a glass. 

"Like I-I join you? In your hotel r-room?" He stammered out. Marcus smirked. 

"If you wish." Marcus walked around to the side of the bar Oliver was on, and plucked the glass out of his hand, pressing up against him to place it on the shelf behind him. "I would be so...  _pleased_ to have you."

Marcus and Oliver's faces were very close now, and Marcus could smell cheap cologne and sweat and the musk of whiskey on him and it was driving him  _insane._

Oliver leaned in, and Marcus met him halfway. 

The real Marcus part of his conciousness was in complete shock at the nerve of this version of himself, but Oliver was kissing him back, his hands low on Marcus's back, and Marcus wondered if that was really Oliver, in there- if Oliver was trapped in his body that wasn't really his, just reading the story instead of being in it. 

No matter. They finally broke apart, hair mussed and lips swollen, and Marcus grabbed Oliver's wrist in one hand, his briefcase in another, and they strode to the hotel together, smiling 

* * *

The next morning, Marcus wasn't in a bed that he recognised, and Oliver wasn't in it. 

Instead of panicking, he thought. 

Reality jumping. He knew this. It was virtually harmless, from what he'd managed to grasp from Divination and Charms theory. The spell Trelawney had bombed had to be showing them something. Marcus wasn't too worried, he supposed. Flitwick and McGonagall were probably fixing it right now, while he dreamt up different scenarios that were supposed to  _mean_ something.

Even though Oliver wasn't in his bed, he remembered the prior night, and fought a blush as his skin warmed up. He kicked off his blankets when he started to sweat.

They had been  _together,_  last night _._ They had exchanged addresses, and Marcus had promised to come see him when he came back. 

Marcus found himself getting up, and seeing a wand on his nightstand. 

So he was in a universe with magic! Brilliant.

He checked the post, rifling through the boring stuff like bills, taxes, blah blah blah- and saw a cream envelope, with a wax English rose sealing it. 

His heart pounded as he delicately cut the seal open, and read the short letter. 

_To Mr Marcus Caradoc Flint_

_We are pleased to announce that you have been selected to represent England with the English National Quidditch Team. Your efforts during the tryouts were duly noted, and you have great potential._

_Please accept this invitation to the gala we are holding tonight to officially name the roster to the press, and for you to meet your future teammates. The dress code is formal._

_You have made the country proud!_

_From the Department of Quidditch and other Wizarding Sport_

Marcus reread the letter, stunned. Then he screamed. Loudly.

He was on the  _English National Team_ in this reality. That was  _insane._ That was  _all his wildest dreams come true._

Marcus wondered if Oliver fit into this somewhere.

His floo rose in green fire, and he went to go answer it.

"Marcus!" Terence roared through the floo. "Did you get a letter?"

He smiled brightly. "The quidditch letter? Wasn't quite chuffed when they used my middle name."  _Caradoc._ His parents were set on letting Marcus get endlessly teased, apparently, but his Welsh heritage was something they took great pride in, even though he was _technically_ English.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Terence cheered. "Babe, come congratulate Marc!"

To say Marcus was surprised when Adrian Pucey popped his head into the floo was an understatement, but this reality's Marcus wasn't fazed, grinning proudly.

"Congratulations Marc!" Adrian said, looking very proud. "I'm so glad for you two- I know you both wanted this for so long!"

"Thanks Adrian!" This wasn't just something Marcus wanted in this universe- the unconscious Marcus at home wanted this  _desperately,_ so, so desperately. To play for England, to have friends.

"Any clue who else made the team?" Marcus wondered aloud. 

Terence nodded. "Angie, Davies and Wood. Five Hogwarts alums! Incredible."

Angie had to be Angelina Johnson. Marcus had always had a grudging respect for the woman- she was  _terrifying_. But were they on nickname terms? Or was it just Terence?

"Angie wants to get in on this call, hold on." A flick of Terence's wand had Angelina's face floating in Marcus's fireplace. " _We did it! We fucking did it!"_

"Jesus, you're a banshee." Marcus quipped, and Angelina good-naturedly flipped him off. 

"Come off it, as if you didn't scream when you saw yours, Marc." Oh- they were on nickname terms, after all. Marcus wondered how he stood with Oliver, here.

"Best part?" Adrian crowed, "Marcus can finally act on that crush he'd had on Wood all through our Hogwarts years."

"My  _what_?" Marcus gasped, scandalised. 

"You're a shitty liar." Angelina informed him firmly. "You two have been dancing around each other since Witch Weekly came out with that horrendous article about you two. Jump his bones."

"Why am I the bone-jumper?" Marcus gave up on denial, and instead decided petulant was more effective. "Why can't he jump  _my_ bones?"

"Because when it comes to you, all that Gryffindor courage suddenly goes  _poof._ The two of you haven't spoken since that awful Puddlmere-Montrose game, with all the press." She said, shuddering at the violent memory. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have calls to make, dresses to pick. I wonder how Davies is doing... last time I checked he and Cedric Diggory were still going strong. See you tonight!"

"I better start picking out my dress too." Terence smiled. "Joking."

"You have the legs for it." Adrian teased. "Bye Marc!"

Marcus passed the rest of the day before the gala wandering running errands, steaming a suit, and reading the prophet. He drank a lot of tea, a nervous habit, and berated himself after his hands began to twitch. 

When he arrived at the gala, panicking slightly, he grabbed a flute of champagne off a passing tray and downed it in one go. Then grabbed another one. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces. 

Angelina Johnson, looking stunning in a crimson gown that showed off her athletic figure and beautiful dark skin, was conversing with Oliver Wood near the edges of the room. Marcus immediately felt his breath shorten, and felt a bit dizzy. 

Oliver Wood, in the flesh. And he was looking  _fit._

More so than his Hogwarts Days, and Marcus had always thought that Oliver Wood could get  _no hotter._ How wrong he had been! 

His tuxedo fit him perfectly, taut around the shoulders. Marcus itched to straighten his crooked yellow and navy tie- Puddlemere colours. He wore that charming, crooked smile with the dimples that would be easily melting the hearts of Quidditch fans everywhere. 

Marcus plucked another two glasses of champagne, feeling the pleasant fuzzy feeling in his head- oh, he'd always been a terrible lightweight. He then plucked up the last bit of his courage, and strode towards Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood.

"Marc!" She said cheerfully. Her makeup was impeccable- beautiful but still highly intimidating. "How long have you been here?"

"Five minutes, really. I'm really nervous." He confessed, flushing when he made eye contact with Oliver. 

"How've you been, Flint?" Oliver said softly, stick his hand out for a shake. It felt nostalgic, shaking Oliver's hand- it reminded him of he and Oliver's first game as captain. They'd tried to crush each other's fingers, Marcus's mouth curling when Oliver finally winced. 

In the universe Marcus belonged to, the one he was knocked out in, he still had a few games to play against Oliver. He hadn't thought about how in a few months, he and Oliver would never shake each other's hand before a game for a very long time.

Marcus grabbed the waiting hand, ignoring the fireworks in his head, squeezing it lightly and bobbing it up and down. "Brilliant. Woke up and saw the post and I've never been more ecstatic." 

"Well, it's always been the dream, hasn't it?" He grinned, and Marcus was made very aware that he hadn't let go, and reddened, embarrassed. It  _had_ always been the dream. He supposed that's why they never got along- fighting over something they both wanted without realising they could  _share._

"You know that. We've always been so similar, I 'spose." Marcus noted. He saw Angelina wink at him in the his peripheral, and she went off to go chat with Terence. 

It was well known that the Wood and Flint rivalry would never be forgotten in Hogwarts Quidditch history, but the end of their school careers, people had begun to think the tension between them was something not quite negative. 

It didn't help that they were in the public eye almost immediately after the graduation- and Oliver Wood came out as sexually fluid, something which not only shocked Marcus but left him alone with  _very_ uncomfortable thoughts for ages after. The papers had jumped on that, speculating as to Oliver Wood's dating history, his time at Hogwarts, even an interview with that horrible Greengrass girl who claimed that "he and Flint had  _always_ had some energy between them."

Then, Montrose and Puddlemere played the championship game. The press was ecstatic- and sadly, it wasn't just because of the sport. 

Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint would be playing against each other again, at last. They were having a  _field day._ Marcus had gotten so flustered and uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the writers and photographers that he had snapped at Oliver furiously, saying it was all his fault, that he was in the press associated with _him_. His bad mood may have been because of losing, but still, it was harsh. 

He'd written a letter to Oliver a few days after, apologising for his public outburst. He made sure to note that he had been awkward about his own sexuality being questioned. He had winced when he saw all the articles, with ridiculous headlines like, " _Lovers Spat? Marcus Flint rages in public feud with Oliver Wood",_ and  _"Love at First Fight; Every Indicator of the Wood/Flint Secret Relationship!"_

The latter had been Witch Weekly, of course. 

But since then, they hadn't spoken at all. It didn't stop the Daily Prophet owls from bombarding his door.

"The press hasn't stopped at all, haven't they?" Oliver commented, an attempt at nonchalance. He sipped his champagne thoughtfully as Marcus spluttered.

"Uh- yeah. They haven't." Marcus admitted, "The only rag I've given an interview to in the past few months is  _The Quibbler._ "

"You know, Angie gave me a thought this morning." Oliver said, sounding a bit nervous, for what reason, Oliver didn't know. "As to stop press from bothering. Well, granted, it'll be more of a bother, for a bit, but after a few weeks they should settle completely. 

Marcus didn't jump to conclusions quite yet, but Oliver was insinuating something that he'd thought of before, a desperate attempt at stopping the incessant letters and a chance to squash his feelings down even further. 

"Go on." 

Oliver shifted a bit, eyeing around the room, watching for any eavesdroppers. 

"Angie suggested that we pretend we're-  _you know._ " Oliver blushed. "They'll stop speculating, ask for a couple interviews, which we can deny, keep up public appearances for a few months, and have a spectacular breakup, and it'll stop forever."

"You want to pretend that we're  _dating_?" Marcus said incredulously. He was  _so_ going to be having words with Angelina later. "Woo-  _Oliver._ That is a  _terrible_ idea."

"It wasn't mine!" Oliver whined. "But I am  _this_ close to punching a reporter and they haven't slowed down at  _all_. It's been like this since we  _graduated._ "

Marcus let his mind explore the endings for this story. Say yes, go through with the entire plan, break up, and end up heartbroken. Say no, end up with press at his door every day for the rest of the foreseeable future. 

 _Say yes, go through with the plan, fall in love._  

That was being too hopeful. 

This was going to end in no less pain than a bludger to the heart. 

Marcus wanted to be  _near_ him, wanted to  _touch_ him. He liked Oliver's company. He liked Oliver. 

"Fine." Marcus shocked himself at the rash decision, and also shocked himself with how calmly he managed to say it. "Beginning now?"

"Might as well make it a show." Oliver shrugged, and then grabbing his hand, squeezing it. Marcus instantly relaxed a little, though not completely. The hand was warm, calloused, rough from years of broom handling, so similar to Marcus's own. "I'm going to kiss you now."

He spluttered, and didn't even have time to object (as if he would!) until Oliver's lips were on his, and people around them gasped and squealed.

Flashes from behind closed eyes let him know that reporters were watching, and Oliver's mouth curled into a smirk on Marcus' lips. Marcus felt a high like no other, his head clouded and eyes lidded a bit. When they broke apart, he felt something akin to disappointment.

"Don't fall in love with me, darling." Marcus joked lightly, words holding some truth, heart racing like he was in sixth year again, winning the Quidditch cup, pumping with adrenaline. Oliver had begun to walk away, smiling cheekily at the reporters and making his way to speak with a squealing Angelina.

Marcus almost stopped breathing when he heard a  _"no promises,"_ from the retreating figure. 

* * *

Marcus woke up the next morning in a very messy bedroom.

He was starting to catch onto the pattern now- every morning, new alternate universe, new storyline. 

Marcus shook his head to clear his thoughts. No use in dwelling- after all, if waking up in a different reality was the pattern, he couldn't get too attached. It was just his imagination- when they were in Hogwarts, they'd continue to hate each other, never see each other again after graduation, and life would go on. 

Marcus didn't know what would hurt more- watching himself and Oliver fall in love over and over again, or face reality where they'd hate each other over and over again. 

' _Stop that.'_ Marcus chided himself inwardly. ' _Roll with the punches. Freaking out will make this experience suck.'_

Marcus wondered how many days he would wake up in different beds, with endless possibilities, different lives, different eras- Marcus Flint, every single time. How long would it be in Hogwarts time? A day a second? A day a minute? A day an hour, a day a month, a day a year?

If Oliver was in today's, he  _definitely_ knew what was going on.

His room was of a typical teenagers- a muggle teenager- with movie posters on the wall and an American football on the floor, surrounded by clothing strewn and discarded everywhere. It as a vile sight- Snape did dorm checks frequently in Hogwarts, and certainly would have taken house points for such a horrible  _mess._

He got ready for his day, picking up a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and grabbing his varsity jacket (which Marcus thought was most  _ghastly-_ what was wrong with a good old fashioned Quidditch sweater), and he strode downstairs and checked the calendar. 

_September 29, 1981_

The date had been circled over and over again in red pen, with the blaring words  _HOCO_ written on the date, and Marcus frowned. 

How was he supposed to enjoy homecoming if he couldn't take the one guy he was into? 

He was football captain- bringing the basketball captain to homecoming as his date would be dubbed  _strange._

Marcus wasn't sure if he wanted to stick with normal anymore. 

Besides, it was too late to find a HoCo date. Impossible, even. 

He ate breakfast quickly and hopped into his car- a red vintage that his father had owned before he died- and went to make his rounds, picking up his friends and teammates. 

Draco was first- and already he was complaining about  _Harry Potter,_ with his  _stupid_ varsity jacket, and his  _stupid_ hair, and his  _stupid_ eyes. Marcus inwardly sighed. Some things would never change. Marcus chose not to comment that Draco was wearing the exact same varsity jacket, just in a slightly different colour- they played different sports, obviously. 

Then, it was Montague and Pansy, who lived right across the road from each other. The rides to school were always a squeeze, with people piling on top of each other in a not quite legal way and cussing at Marcus's sharp turns. 

Warrington was next, then Zabini, then Adrian Pucey.

Astoria and Daphne's mom drove them to school, so he didn't worry about them. 

As they pulled up to school, Draco finally unburdened with the weight that was Pansy Parkinson, Marcus caught sight of a familiar brunet head walking towards the school, before instead changing directions and heading to the pitch, under the bleachers. 

Marcus grinned. 

He waved his friends goodbye, locking his car and speed walking to their meeting spot. Oliver Wood sat under the bleachers in the grass, waiting, blowing big pink bubblegum bubbles, and looking  _beautiful._

"Hey." He said, after the bubble had burst with a  _"pop!"_ He stood up to greet Marcus, pecking him lightly. It never ceased to make Marcus feel the same way, even after a year, since their first angry kiss in the locker rooms of the school.

"Hi." Marcus said goofily. "How are you?"

"Stressed." Oliver pouted, burying his head into the crook in Marcus's neck. "Soccer champs are in a week. And McGonagall assigned a 2000 word essay about the  _carbon cycle_." He grimaced, as though personally offended, and Marcus offered him a sympathetic laugh. 

"Well, babe, that's what student athlete is." Marcus said. Oliver grumbled something that sounded like " _shut up_ " into his neck. 

They stood in comfortable silence for a bit, knowing that the bell would ring any minute, but that didn't matter. 

Oliver was the one who broke the silence, standing up straight and looking at Marcus directly, slightly nervous, but still determined in the way he always was. 

"What's up?" Marcus asked concernedly. 

"Idon'twanttobesecretanymore." He blabbered back, too quickly for Marcus to catch. "I don't want to be secret anymore."

"Oh?"

Marcus felt the initial fear that came with all confessions, first. What would people think? What would they say? What about his captaincy?

No. He wouldn't think like that. 

His friends knew about Oliver. Oliver's friends knew about him. That was all the people they cared about. Everyone else could fuck themselves.  _Right?_

Oliver was more important to him then some opinions from around the school. 

_(Besides, Draco's crush on Harry was notorious, and nobody made comments about that!)_

_(Well, that might be because Draco could be very intimidating, even for a sophomore)_

_(Not any more intimidating than Marcus was, thank you very much)_

"Okay." Marcus said slowly, smiling softly at Oliver's hopeful eyes. "Fine. Can I just ask why?"

Oliver's soft look became a mischievous one. "Are you sure you want to go public? Very sure?"

"Yes, Olly, but  _why?_ "

"Be in the cafeteria today at lunch, and you'll find out." Oliver said with glee, and just in time, the bell rang, signalling the start of homeroom. "Do  _not_ miss it, I'll kill you myself."

The cryptic message stuck with Marcus through all his classes up to lunch. In the hallways, he saw Oliver nudge Terence, and he whispered into Higgs's ear, "it's on, let them know."

Maybe his lipreading was just bad, but  _what_ was on? Who was  _them_? The curiosity was killing him, and if he didn't find out soon, he was going to die. 

There were three minutes left of Chemistry- three minutes left of Snape's drawl and three minutes till Oliver's surprise.

When Snape decided to hold them back another two minutes, he scowled and flipped the teacher off when his back was turned.

He all but ran to the cafeteria, where a growing crowd was circled around a fucking  _weird_ setup. The people parted for him, giving him ample space to watch the events unfold.

They had cleared some of the tables to make a large space. There was a rack holding four basketballs, Oliver holding one, and there was a basketball hoop set up and stuck to the wall, which Terence held in place by standing on a table. He grinned at Marcus's raised eyebrow. 

Adrian Pucey held a microphone. "Does anyone know how to play  _Horse_?"

When the crowd stayed silent, Adrian mocked irritation and sighed. "Well, Horse is a basketball game. For every basket you make, you earn a letter. First person to achieve the whole word wins. But Wood here-" he gestured to him, "is playing on his own, with our makeshift net, and a different word. For every basket he makes, our lovely assistants here will hold up the letter he earned."

The crowd clapped, albeit a little confused, and whispered in curiositywhen Adrian finished with a, "Marcus Flint, this one is to you, for you, from Oliver."

Oliver took his first shot, landing it with a swish, and the crowd cheered when Draco held up the first letter-  _H._

Second shot went in. Angelina picked up her letter-  _O._

The third one circled around the rim, and Lavender Brown squealed loudly, but when it dropped in, people whooped in relief. Katie Bell picked her letter-  _C._

Marcus knew where this was going, the word it was going to spell. From the crowd's reaction, they knew too, and they tittered loudly and excitedly, two papers left with letters on them. He watched with the sheer determination that Oliver, his routine before he took free throws, and decided he has never been in more love. 

It went in, and everyone went  _ballistic._ McGonagall watched from the outskirts of the crowd, looking too pleased to calm the craze. 

Harry picked up the letter  _O._

The last ball went in, nobody quite caring when Pansy picked up her card, that had a question mark on it, and they waited in bated breath when Oliver took the microphone. 

 _HOCO_ _?_ The word spelt out.

"Marcus Flint," he said, looking happy but very anxious. "I know it's _very_ late, but will you go to homecoming with me?"  

Marcus stood shocked as everyone looked at him, many smiling, few frowning, everyone confused.

He walked up to his boyfriend and pecked him on the lips, and said into the microphone, " _of course_."

People shrieked and cheered around them, hugging each other and gossiping. Their friends clapped them on the back and gave them hugs.

Marcus began to wonder why he'd been so scared, at all. He looked at Oliver fondly.

Now he had everything he wanted.

* * *

Marcus was wearing a nightie _._ A  _fucking nightie_. 

He was beginning to worry, now. This was the fourth night he had dreamed up, and was beginning to feel concerned. 

He gathered his surroundings, looking out the window of his room. 

From his window, he could see that he was in a big mansion in a forest, not vastly different from the Flint Manor deep in the Welsh wood. But his new home was lit with candles, a long white shirt hanging off his broad frame, and a inner voice told him that the year was 1893, and today the Flints would be in talks with the Notts about an arranged marriage.

The Flints, descending from some filthily corrupt Italian family many years ago (which meant Marcus sadly had to learn Italian), had become almost royalty in Wales, where they had migrated. It was only right that they married into another influential family- the German family of Nott. 

It wasn't even going to be a  _talk._ This marriage had been set up a decade before Marcus had even been born.

It was safe to say that he did  _not_ want to marry Ophelia Nott. 

He got ready for his day, dressing slowly in the clothes his mother had asked the servants to lay out for him. He combed a hand through his hair- that's as good as it was going to get, really, and instead of making his way down to the dining room, where his mother would be eating breakfast, he made his way down to the gardens. 

The gardener's house was modest, tiny in comparison to the Flint estate, but it was cosy and warm, and possibly Marcus's favourite part of the entire manor. He entered, smiling at Oliver sat up shirtless on the large bed, leaning against the headboard, his brow furrowed while he read. 

"That book can't be nearly as interesting as me." Marcus joked, seating himself comfortably in Oliver's lap. Oliver dropped his book, startled, but soon gave all his attention towards the man in his lap. 

"Nothing is as interesting as you, darling. You are an enigma." 

Oliver's strong Scottish lilt and deep, comforting voice made Marcus homesick for something he'd never experienced. Oliver was allowed to go back to Scotland twice a year as a part of his salary- he had a big family that loved him and missed him. He had fondly told Marcus stories of warm Christmas carolling, boisterous gatherings at the dinner table, and friends he could spend time with. Marcus had only a mostly empty mansion with his cold, calculating parents and some servants. 

Marcus was lonely. 

When Marcus and Oliver had begun their affair, two years prior, Oliver had been a fresh face around the estate, only a month in on the job, and Marcus's father had been dead for a year. Marcus had been eighteen, Oliver seventeen. Marcus had been bored, that summer, as his mother left him in the mansion to go to Italy while he learned the ropes of the Flint businesses. 

He had begun poking at Oliver, bothering him as he did his gardening duties. This may have been an excuse to go see Oliver working hard under the sun with no top on, but Marcus would never admit it out loud. Finally, Oliver got fed up, and pressed Marcus up against the wall, looking for a fight, ending up with the opposite. 

"What's wrong?" Oliver murmured concernedly, at Marcus' suddenly stony face. 

After fondly remembering the beginning of their romance, Marcus had been abruptly brought back down to reality. He was arranging a marriage, today. He would be married within the year. 

Oliver, no matter how much Marcus tried, could not be fit into the equation. 

"The Notts are coming today." He whispered sadly. Oliver shuttered his face, but wrapped his arms around Marcus. "With  _Ophelia._ " 

He spat the name disgustedly, which was a bit unfair- Ophelia didn't have much of a say at all, really, but it made Marcus feel a bit better.

No, it didn't. 

"It'll be okay." Oliver soothed, but his voice shook, and he sounded very unsure, and it broke Marcus's heart a little.

"I  _hate_ this." Marcus snapped savagely. "I don't want Ophelia. I don't want the Notts. I don't want their German real estate-"

"I know." Oliver whispered. 

"-I want  _you._ " His voice finally cracked, a tear dropping for the first time since his father died, and that had been of  _happiness._ Because he had been  _free._

And as quickly as it came, it left, and Marcus was about to be shackled down by a wife he would never learn to love for some extra coin they didn't need. 

They sat in silence, for a few minutes, both heads reeling a hundred miles a minute.

Marcus blurted a private thought he had entertained since he fell in love.

"Run away with me." He spilled, and Oliver's shoulder tensed where Marcus had been leaning on it. "I mean it."

"Don't be rash, love." Oliver's voice was guarded, but Marcus could feel the hope radiating off him. 

"I'm not." Marcus sat up, gesturing almost desperately. "I can't marry Ophelia. I won't. I don't belong here."

Oliver made to interrupt, but Marcus put a finger to his lips, quieting him. 

"The contract that I signed when my father died was so I have complete access to my trust, the business, and some of the inheritance he left for Mother and I. No connection to my mother at all. We could build an entirely new  _life._ " Marcus spoke frantically. "We could go to any of the unused estate in Italy, or go back to Scotland. France, Switzerland,  _China,_ you name it, we'll go. I am the sole owner of all of it. My mother can try and look but I overrule her."

His voice cracked. "Oliver, I would never force you to do anything,  _ever,_ but,  _dammit,_ I  _love_ you. I can't even  _pretend_ I like Ophelia." 

Oliver sat silently, and Marcus felt his heart drop to his stomach. 

"Oh." Marcus mumbled. "I've gone and ruined everything, fuck."

Oliver shook his head vehemently, grabbing Marcus's wrists as he made to leave. "No! No, stay." Marcus sat back down. "I didn't know you  _felt_ this way."

He looked a little lost for a minute, and Marcus felt bad that he'd ever brought it up at all. 

"I don't want you to get in trouble." Oliver confessed. "What will they say? It'll be the story of the decade?"

"Oh, come on, it's happened before!" Marcus lightened the mood, or at least tried. "I've read and heard the stories. Miss Chang and her neighbour, Miss Parkinson. Sirius Black and his getaway driver, Remus Lupin. Hell, the Potter boy and the Malfoy boy haven't been seen in a year!" 

Oliver chuckled lightly. "I read somewhere that two men looking alarmingly like them were shagging in Greece."

"That could be us!" Marcus murmured. "If you want time to think about it-"

"Yes." Oliver stopped him. "I'll go with you."

Marcus's heart all but stopped. "You will?"

Oliver nodded and Marcus launched himself at the boy, and was filled with love love love  _love._

"How fast can you pack?" Marcus said, peppering the boy with kisses, and Oliver  _giggled._

"An hour. Give me one hour."

Marcus gave Oliver a searing kiss, and whispered, " _God,_ I love you,  _mio dolce amor._ "

Oliver didn't understand Italian, of course, but he smiled anyways, and shooed him away. 

"Get packing. If you leave me with my bags waiting I'll be the prime suspect of your murder."

Marcus all but sprinted to his room, locking the door, and packing only necessities. All he really needed was Oliver. 

"Emily!" He called for his servant, who'd been kind to him, good to him. She came dutifully, curtsying, but Marcus waved it away. "I'm leaving. For a  _long,_ long time. You can't tell Mother, but I need you to prepare a carriage for me. In about an hour."

She nodded her consent, but timidly asked, "where are you going, sir?"

"Away, Emily." He said excitedly. "I'm not going to marry Ophelia. I have a lover, already. Make that what you will, you can tell the rest of the maids when we're long gone, but  _don't_ let Mother find out, I swear to God, I want her to figure it out herself. Thank you for your service, Emily."

He dropped a heavy sack of gold coins into her hand, and her eyes widened. "The carriage, Emily, ta!"

She could only nod, shocked, but she couldn't  _complain,_ when she had just been given  _that_ much money. She scurried off, leaving Marcus to his devices. 

An hour later, he strode out of the house, took Oliver's hand, and instructed the carriage man to _go_.

It was the best decision Marcus had made in his lifetime.

* * *

On day number five, Marcus had a proper panic, when he didn't wake up in the infirmary, but in his own bed in Hogwarts- but there was something off enough about it that Marcus knew that he was still dreaming. 

Marcus wondered if he'd ever get out- if he'd ever live his own life again, or jump into different versions of himself forever- watching himself fall in love with Oliver, being in love with Oliver, but not really  _having_ him. 

This reality's Marcus had a big fat crush on Oliver (again). He'd have to make do with it.

' _Please, please, please, please, Pomfrey, wake me up soon.'_ Marcus inwardly begged as he got ready for the day, shrugging on his quidditch sweater. His face was bruised up- he'd gotten into a fight, then.

He went into the Great Hall and sat by Terence and Draco, and they were discussing seeker tactics. Terence had gotten over Marcus letting Draco pay his way onto the team, he supposed, but Slytherins were  _known_ to be  _resourceful,_ and if decking the entire team with the best broom wasn't resourceful, he didn't know what was. 

"This one will work against Chang-" Terence was muttering, not wanting anyone to hear team secrets, which Marcus was proud of. "But Potter's a little sneakier than that, so you'll have to try this instead... oh, Flint, fuck you, mate."

Marcus flipped him off. "Wasn't my fault." 

"It was  _so_ your fault. Wood didn't even do anything."

Last night in this universe, Marcus had gotten into a bit of a nasty skirmish with Oliver about the pitch bookings. He touched his bruised face with a wince. 

"Well, you can hold training then." Marcus said to Terence. "I trust you."

"It'd be better if it was you." Terence grumbled. "But  _no,_ you got into a  _fight,_ with  _Wood,_ even though you both have been wanting to get into each other's pants since  _fifth year,_ and now you both have  _detention,_ wiping the  _trophy room._ "

"The trophy room?" Draco looked up incredulously. "You're joking! You two would probably enjoy that, looking at all the quidditch history and shagging in an empty room-"

Marcus whacked the younger boy around the head, feeling satisfied when Draco squealed and shut up promptly. 

The day continued without much fanfare, it being a Saturday. Marcus studied a bit, doodling up quidditch plays and flicking through his poor, battered copy of  _Quidditch Through the Ages._

When it came eight o' clock, Marcus made his way down to the trophy room, and scowled when he saw Oliver, wearing his own Quidditch knit jumper, and Filch, who looked gleeful to be handing them soap and water, making them leave their wands behind. 

Oliver took to polishing trophies immediately, looking sour and not saying a word to Marcus. 

Marcus went to the Quidditch cup, and on the walls were moving photos of all the winners of the Quidditch cup, ever moving. It was mesmerizing, to see all the joy of winning, pictures teams from all the houses on the wall together, each one unaware of the picture of the winners next to him. Because winning, no matter how much you did it, felt amazing every time. Marcus looked to one of the newer photos photo, watching as he lifted the cup proudly, surrounded by his team. A year later ahead, it was Gryffindor, Oliver Wood holding the cup up in synchrony as Marcus.

"Best part of the school, isn't it? This wall." A voice muttered behind him, and Marcus swung around, reaching for his wand but snarling when he realised it was outside.

"Jesus, Wood, a little warning next time?" He grumbled. "But yeah. Yeah, it is, you insufferable wanker."

Marcus looked at the Quidditch Cup nearby, names of every winner swirling all around it in all it's glory. Marcus caught his name, then Oliver's, as well as other school legends, like Charlie Weasley, and Gwenog Jones. 

"Just feels special, being on the same wall as them." Marcus accidentally spoke aloud, and felt hot when Oliver nodded. 

They stood like that, almost shoulder to shoulder, admiring the past winners, for a long time. 

It felt like a truce. 

Oliver broke the silence again. "I don't think I'll ever feel anything like it again. A bit sad, innit?" He says, sounding mournful, and Marcus felt awkward at that. He wasn't close enough to Oliver for confessions.

_You want to be, though. Close to him._

"Me too." Marcus said quietly. "There's always the league cup, hopefully and-"

"-the World Cup." They said at the same time, looking to each other, then away. This was unchartered territory for them- being nice, being understanding.

Marcus squirmed. "Quit that. It's creepy."

"You know, McGonagall always told me that we were cut from the same cloth." Oliver said ruefully. "Said that you were the only person in the school that  _gets_ it. You know?"

When Marcus had first started quidditch, it wasn't his choice. His father had stuck a broom in his hand and kicked him out to fly. But Marcus had learned now that love was not a choice, and when he learned to fly for the first time, he  _fell,_ deeply, madly, in  _love_ with it. 

It was a bit similar with Oliver, he supposed. He didn't  _want_ to like Oliver. He just  _did._

"I believe she lectured me with something like that as well." Marcus kept his voice light. "Something about ' _silly schoolboy spats'_ and  _'you two have the most in common in the entire school- both very partial to quidditch, easy to anger, and a pain in my neck'_ and ' _you two are being exceptionally immature._ '"

Oliver laughed, and it was music to Marcus's ears.

He's long since tried to deny it to himself, no matter how vehemently he told people to shove off when they brought Oliver up, but Marcus really liked Oliver. It was a bit of a conundrum, really, considering Oliver was off limits. 

Oliver's shoulder shifted against Marcus's. They'd gotten really close. 

How off limits was Oliver, really?

If not now, then when?

Marcus was a bit sick of skipping from one reality to the next. There was no consequence of each reality, but Marcus didn't have a choice. It was still like being in a pensieve, watching the events unfold, having no say. He could only watch and listen at the next level of buffoonery he'd achieve each day.

"There's a reason I'm a dick to you, you know." Marcus said, trying for a conversational tone. "Especially in public."

Now,  _this,_ was not just buffoonery, but it was  _exceptionally_ stupid. 

"Why?" Oliver said, not angrily, but just curious. "I'm not completely innocent either, but why?"

"This might be a terribly degenerate house stereotype." He continued. "But Slytherin's have always been terrible with feelings. Not others', of course, because how are you supposed to get what you want if you don't know what everyone else wants? No, Slytherin's are pretty pants at their own feelings. So they tend to shove it away. Maybe push it." He took a breath. "Maybe punch it."

Oliver's shoulders had stopped moving up and down, as if he'd stopped breathing, and Marcus had thought he'd fucked it up, then. 

"Oh." He said. 

"I know, unbelievable, right?" Marcus scowled. "A field day the school's gonna have about this- ' _Flint the Fairy has a schoolgirl crush on Oliver Wood!'_ \- it's going to be ridicu-"

His tirade of self pity and loathing had been cut off, because of  _course,_ Oliver kissed him. 

And in every universe Marcus had dreamt up, it still felt the same every time.  _Life changing._

They only stopped snogging when Filch came to get them. 

* * *

He woke up. 

The room was bright,  _much_ too bright, a mixture of candlelight, fluorescent light and daylight, and everything was  _white._

The walls, the floors, the robes, the rows of beds...

The beds!

Marcus had woken up in the Hospital Wing. And he was experiencing it himself, not second hand, through another Marcus's eyes. No, he was himself, in  _his_ universe, where he could make  _his_ decisions. 

He almost jumped for joy, if not for his throbbing headache.

"Oh, good, Mr Flint, you're awake." Madam Pomfrey bustled over, shoving potions into his hand. "Calming draught, Pepper-Up, and some Memory Restorative, just in case. Drink up, you've missed three days of classes."

He grimaced as the potions slid down his throat- no matter how many times he had them, after wretched Quidditch injuries and multiple physical fights, they were disgusting all the same. 

"You and Mr Wood were under the same spell." She whispered discretely. "Why was he so distraught when he woke up?"

Oliver was nowhere to be seen, when Marcus scanned the beds, and Marcus's throat clenched a bit. 

If he was spooked by the dream, wanting to get away from Marcus as fast as he could, they probably had the same dreams. 

Mortified was an understatement for what Marcus felt. 

"Probably a bit of a fright." Was what he muttered to Madam Pomfrey instead. "I'm feeling better, Madam, may I go now?"

In all honesty, Marcus felt like shit. He was groggy after being asleep for three days, his headache had numbed only slightly, and he  _really, really_ needed to talk to Oliver.

"Are you sure, lovey?" She asked concernedly, and Marcus decided that Madam Pomfrey was indeed an angel, and regretted all the times he'd snapped at her while lying in the hospital beds. 

"Yes, thank you. Just wondering, do you know where Wood went?"

Madam Pomfrey sighed fondly. "Same place as you would, doll."

So Marcus found himself traipsing to the pitch after grabbing his broom from the dorms. None of his roommates were in,  _thank Merlin,_ and he was able to go on his search. 

It was a overcast day, with barely any wind at all- perfect flying conditions.

He looked up, and just as Madam Pomfrey had predicted (the old bat was too intelligent for her own good, bless her), Oliver was nothing but a speck in the sky, zooming around swiftly.

Marcus took a minute to admire Oliver's flying. He was fast, calculated, and strategic with his movements, but he also took risks. The boy flew loop-de-loops. made terrifying dives and twisted on his broom. 

After a minute of gawking, Marcus took off on his own broom to match him. 

When Oliver spotted him, his first face was a scowl- old habits died hard- which quickly turned to fear, but hardened back to a neutral face. He stopped his dangerous flying for a minute, staying still, giving Marcus the oppurtunity to come to him. 

"Flint." He said curtly when Marcus brought his broom to a stop, about a meter away from him. 

All of Marcus's planned speaking points, rants and speeches all about flew out of his head.

"You had the dreams." Is what he said instead.  _'Eloquent, Flint.'_ He berated himself.  

"What dreams?" Oliver inspected his nails casually, but his blush gave him away. 

He wanted to play dumb? Wrong move. 

"Maybe we didn't have the same dreams." Marcus snapped. "But why don't I describe mine to you, and maybe you'll remember something."

Oliver's eyes became as round as saucers. 

"Before we conked out, and you landed so  gracefully on top of me-" Oliver scowled "- I saw the bond Trelawney was trying to show us. Bright gold. Remember what that means? Anyways, my dream lasted around five days. Each day, I woke up in a new universe. The first one was in a muggle airport bar. You were the bartender, I fancied you, and we went to my room and shagged."

Marcus was being crude. He knew it, as well. Oliver definitely knew what he was talking about. His ears turned red.  

"The next day, I woke up and had been accepted into the English National Quidditch team. We met each other at the Gala. Everyone thought we were dating, wouldn't get off our back about it, so we decided to pretend we were in a relationship. I told you not to fall in love with me. Do you remember what you said back?"

For a few seconds, they were both quiet. They heard birds chirping in the distance, a shriek or two from some first years playing by the lake. 

Oliver nodded, and mumbled, "no promises."

"Exactly. Then, day number three, muggles again. You and I were in a relationship, and you asked me to some dance called Homecoming. Made a very public show of it too, mind."

"Day number four, I was to be married to some bitch named Ophelia. You were the gardener and we'd been fucking for about two years. We eloped, went to Italy."

"Day number five, we were Hogwarts students-"

Oliver cut in. "Detention, quidditch cup, I kissed you."

After that, Marcus fell speechless. He hadn't planned ahead of his tirade.

"What are you trying to tell me, Flint?" Oliver said angrily. "Are you trying to embarrass me? Are you going to run off to your teammates and say,  _'Wood has a crush on me'_ and take the piss for the rest of the year? I don't want to talk about-"

"Oh, would you  _shut up!_ " Marcus seethed, and he almost teetered off his broom. He then remembered that they were a hundred feet up in the air. "On the ground, Wood, hurry up."

They flew down quickly and dismounted. 

"You are quite honestly the most  _daft_ person I have ever met in my entire  _life!_ " Marcus shouted, waving his arms. "Why would I try to embarrass you? In fact, in the last part of our lovely shared dream, I'm pretty sure I said that to  _you!_ " 

"They're just dreams-" Oliver tried to start.

"You fancy me, yes?" Marcus almost slapped Oliver, because he was being so  _fucking stupid._ "Trelawney's bond. It was bright gold, you fucking wankstain!"

Oliver opened his mouth to protest, and closed it. Milliseconds later, it clicked. 

"Oh."

Marcus almost laughed with how ridiculous this was. But he didn't. "Do you get it now? Or am I going to spell it out for you?"

When he received no answer, he sighed. 

"I fancy you. Do what you want with that." He snapped, and made to walk away. 

Oliver grabbed his wrist, clenching so hard it was almost painful. 

"Wait." 

Marcus crossed his arms petulantly, too tired and and miserable to deal with more confusion from the Gryffindor. 

"Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?" Oliver mumbled. He looked right embarrassed, after they'd made such a fuss.

Marcus pulled him closer, and plucked up some bravery. He kissed him. 

And everything finally,  _finally_ slotted into place. 

When they pulled apart, Marcus turned around, and said, "you better believe you're  _fucking_ paying!"

Of course Oliver couldn't see his face with his back turned, but he couldn't get rid of the soppy smile that was stuck on his face. 

The dreams didn't mean anything- they just pushed  _this_ universe's Marcus in the right direction.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> leave kudos and comments and talk to me on tumblr @oliivverwood <3333333333333


End file.
